The land is hot, parched, and thirsty.
Windows shutter.
A sweet scent deceives, portending death, where blows it thick.
The sheriff's office calls.
Don't call us. Call for flames. The fire is north.
Gravel crunches. A generator runs. A cricket chirps. Melancholy?
A barely blue hovers above the tree line. Lazy firs sway, ever sanguine.
It's time for rain. Doesn't Nature know?
She does, but we desecrate her.
Her nature. Altered.
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